Page 29 of Slap Shot Daddies

“So close,” I gasp out, arching, seeking more.

“Let me help,” Braden offers, leaning forward and rubbing his fingers over my clit.

I fly apart with a scream, shaking, grabbing a hold of the men around me for purchase, gushing all over Ambrose as he growls with satisfaction.

As the orgasm starts to ebb away, I watch as Ambrose pulls out, coming across my belly and flopping down on the giant bed with us all.

I wake up tangled in a mass of limbs, my body blissfully warm beneath the cocoon of blankets.

The dim glow of a bedside lamp casts a soft, golden light across Reggie’s sprawling, custom-made bed; a testament to his proclivity for such scenarios.

The sheets lie in a chaotic disarray, our bodies entwined. I’m surrounded by the gentle rhythm of steady breathing.

Braden is curled up snugly against my back, his hand resting lightly over my waist, like a comforting weight.

Reggie’s arm, sturdy and reassuring, is tucked beneath my head, serving as a makeshift pillow. His hair is a wild tangle against the crumpled sheets.

On my other side, Ambrose is closer than I had anticipated, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his features softened and unguarded in sleep.

I should be happy.

Satisfied.

Instead, a dull ache throbs insistently in my hand, tethering me back to stark reality. My chest tightens as the gravity of my actions settles in, heavy and unavoidable.

These are the men I work with, ones I have only just begun to understand.

What if this changes everything? What if they start treating me differently?

And my family, what would they think if they ever knew?

The warmth blossoming in my chest begins to cool, gradually replaced by a creeping anxiety.

With a deliberate, careful motion, I extricate myself from the tangle of limbs, pulling the sheets up to cover their sleeping forms as I slide to the floor.

My clothes are strewn about, but I manage to gather them, dressing quickly and quietly in the dim light.

My throat tightens with unspoken fears. I need air. I need to think.

Without allowing myself another glance back, I slip out the door, stepping into the cool embrace of the night, seeking solace in its quiet vastness.

The air nips at my exposed skin as I stride briskly down the silent sidewalk. The city, once alive with the vibrant pulse of nightlife, now seems muted, the occasional distant laughter and the low rumble of passing cars the only remnants of its nocturnal energy.

I could have just called an Uber from their house, spared myself this walk, but I didn’t want them to wake and try to stop me.

So here I am, making my way to a local dive bar nestled a few blocks away.

The neon beer sign outside flickers erratically as I push open the heavy, creaking door and step inside. The air is thick with the smell of stale beer and the greasy aroma of fried food, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses that fill the dimly lit space.

I perch on a worn stool at the bar, pulling out my phone, my fingers hesitating over the ride-share app.

The bartender, a woman in her early forties with tired, yet kind eyes and a warm, welcoming smile, approaches me as she wipes down the counter.

“What can I get you, hon?” she asks, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity and concern. Her eyes flick to my arm.

I shake my head lightly. “Just a Diet Coke. I’m waiting for a ride.”

She studies me for a brief moment before pouring the soda and sliding it across the counter with a gentle nudge. “You okay? You look…rattled.”

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